


After the Battle

by RandomRuth



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s01e04 Sanctuary, Gen, ManDadlorian, Missing Scene, Planet Sorgan (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomRuth/pseuds/RandomRuth
Summary: “What about this?” Cara asks, holding the metal up for the Mandalorian to inspect.“Market,” Din says, taking it from her and putting it on the correct pile. At least the AT-ST can now help pay for repairs in the village—at least it can now be used for some good, rather than for terrorising innocent people.Around them the villagers also work to restore the natural order of their home.(The morning after the battle, the Mandalorian and Cara help the Sorgan villagers tidy up and begin the healing process. Cuteness ensues.)One-shot, missing scene for Chapter 4: "Sanctuary".
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 16
Kudos: 85





	After the Battle

**Author's Note:**

> I am quite nervous posting this as I am new to the worlds of Star Wars and I haven't written anything in over two years! But the Mandalorian and his little green bean have completely taken over my life and stolen my heart so I had to write something! Please enjoy. :)

Cara reaches with both hands under the surface of the pond. The thin layer of oil on the water ripples to create a kaleidoscope of colours in the mid morning sunlight. With a grunt of effort she pulls another piece of twisted metal free from where it had embedded itself in the earth bank.

“What about this?” she asks, holding the metal up for the Mandalorian to inspect. He stands on the bank, sorting the metal she salvages from the remains of the AT-ST into two piles—one with parts that the villagers can use to repair their droids, another with the pieces that can be sold at the market in the nearest town.

Water drips from the metal in Cara’s hand, mixing with traces of oil, and runs in a rivulet over her hand and down her arm. Din remembers the last time she was standing there, the huge Imperial Walker towering above her—it seems so long ago, although it has only been a few hours. Morning brings a new perspective on the wreckage; the twisted, molten remains of an ugly thing that dared to step foot in this isolated sanctuary.

“Market,” Din says, taking it from her and putting it on the correct pile. At least the AT-ST can now help pay for repairs in the village—at least it can now be used for some good, rather than for terrorising innocent people.

Around them the villagers also work to restore the natural order of their home.

Before first light, a group left with a speeder and several shovels to bury the Klatooinian dead somewhere deep in the forest.

As the rest of the village awoke, they set to various tasks. Everyone seemed to understand what was required of them—that they needed to do as much as they could to return their home to its former order to begin to put the battle behind them. There was still a haunted look in a lot of peoples’ eyes, but Din knew that once the most obvious reminders of the battle were tidied away, the natural beauty of this place would heal many wounds.

The massive, ramshackle barricade is slowly being cleared away, a few are harvesting krill from a pond untouched by last night’s battle. Heads down, working hard, focusing on what comes after.

An eruption of laughter from near the centre of the village has both Din and Cara turning their heads to see. The children of the village awoke about an hour ago and helped a little where they could. Now some of them are helping to sort freshly harvested krill, Din assumes by size, into different baskets. Winta is there, as is the Child, and the village children watch and laugh as the Child eagerly thrusts his hands into a basket and plays with the blue krill.

It is the laughter of the relieved, the glad to be alive. Din looks around him and most of the adult villagers are watching too, smiling fondly. One by one they look away, return to their tasks. The smiles linger for a while, even under Din’s helmet.

* * *

As the sun is at its highest and the pale moons are at their faintest in the sky, there is a disturbance at the edge of the woods. Din and Cara are standing over their piles of metal, making some minor adjustments to their choices, and watch as the repulsorlift speeder glides out into the open, flanked by the villagers with shovels. Shoulders slumped, exhausted. Without a word they leave their speeder with Din and Cara and walk to the centre of the village where Omera and some of the others are starting to prepare food.

It will not be long now before everyone takes a break. The transformation of the village in just these first few hours of daylight is very impressive but the work is hard and everyone is flagging, the children’s laughter not quite as sustaining as warm food in an empty stomach.

Din and Cara have almost finished loading the speeder with the metal they have chosen for market when something catches Cara’s eye. One corner of her mouth turns up as she nods at something just behind Din. “I think someone wants to see you,” she says.

Din turns, expecting to see a villager, but instead has to look down to see that the Child has toddled over. He’s looking up at Din expectantly, holding out the offering of a Sorgan frog with both hands. Din has been keeping an eye on the Child all morning, has caught him stealing and gulping down the blue krill several times. The Child, Din thinks, can’t possibly be hungry.

“Hello,” he says, kneeling down in front of the Child. “Is this frog for me?”

An affirmative, “Bah.”

The frog doesn’t look very pleased with the situation as Din carefully takes it from the Child. Din finds that he is genuinely touched by the gesture and, surprisingly, sorry that he doesn’t eat live frogs. “Thank you,” he says sincerely, making sure to look the Child in the eye.

The Sorgan frog lets out a loud croak and squirms even harder in Din’s light grip. Din allows it to struggle free and it hops immediately into the nearest pond. The Child comically looks between the oily kaleidoscope ripples where the frog disappeared and Din’s helmet and makes a disappointed burble.

“Sorry,” Din says as the ears droop. “I don’t eat live frogs, little buddy, you understand?”

Din isn’t sure if the Child _does_ understand so he picks him up, holding him at arm’s length—this action has the desired effect and the Child’s expression brightens. His little clawed hands are blue from playing with the fresh krill and he waggles them around. Din bends his arms, bringing the Child a little closer to him with the intention of explaining again why he let the gift frog go but he stops when a tiny hand touches his breastplate, the claws making a tiny  _ tink _ noise on the Beskar.

The Child’s face breaks into a smile as he touches Din’s breastplate again, and then Din’s helmet— his cheeks, his forehead, anywhere he can reach.  _ Tink tink tink _ . Soon the Child is giggling, a huge grin on his face, his eyes shining with amusement.

It’s an infectious grin and before he realises Din is grinning back.

“There’s lunch,” Cara speaks up from behind them and as she passes she is clearly suppressing a grin of her own. 

Din tucks the still giggling Child into the crook of his arm and follows Cara as she walks towards the villagers who have gathered for some food and waved them over. As they approach the smell of molten metal and oil is replaced by grilled krill.

The adults are around a fire, talking amongst themselves. The group that disappeared into the forest early this morning already appear more animated than they did when they first returned. The healing has already begun.

Cara joins the adults and tucks into her food, at home in strangers’ company, while Din takes the Child over to join the other children who have formed a small group of their own off to one side. Din sets the Child down among them and despite how much the Child has already eaten this morning, apparently there is always room in his little tummy for more krill.

The children are still wary of the Mandalorian armour but some now are suppressing giggles in his presence which he supposes is an improvement. The Child is very good at making them laugh, it seems, because as soon as he turns his back the giggles become a bit louder and more unsuppressed.

Omera approaches with a loaded plate for him—some grilled krill, a hunk of bread and some purple berries from the forest. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” she tells him, anticipating him correctly, “don’t worry.”

It may just be the aftermath of the battle, the weight of the threat of bandits off her shoulders—but her smile seems warmer today, the crinkles around her eyes a little deeper, as she looks at him for a few seconds too long. There may be a helmet between them but there may as well not be, the way her eyes seem to bore into his soul.

“Thank you,” he eventually says with a nod, meaning the food but also for keeping an eye on the Child and something else indecipherable. He has one last look at the Child before he retreats to the barn that has become his and the Child’s temporary home.

He sidesteps a toy the Child abandoned this morning to stand at the window, setting his plate of food down on the sill. When he is sure no one is looking he removes his helmet, closing his eyes and taking in a lungful of fresh Sorgan air.

When he opens his eyes, he sees why the Child was giggling, why Cara was trying not to laugh in his face, why the village children looked upon him with less fear—his helmet is covered in tiny blue handprints, three fingers with little claws.

He looks down and his breastplate is the same, one of the blue handprints directly over his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr! sirtadcooper.tumblr.com


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